


Divine Inspiration

by Literarion



Series: Naturally [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Druids, Multi, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Prehistoric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 12:29:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20135470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Literarion/pseuds/Literarion
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley get drunk together in a tavern in Salisbury. A druid overhears them discussing philosophy, and finds inspiration.





	Divine Inspiration

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fanfic I've ever written, and the first prose in something like ten years. It's written for the TV canon, but should work equally well for the book.  
Do let me know what you think!

**Wiltshire, 2010 bc**

Aziraphale enjoys the early morning sun on his face as it falls in low rays through the window. It's way too early to be up for anyone requiring sleep, so he has the tavern room to himself. He enjoys the peace and quiet in the abandoned space, which seems necessary after a particularly long night out with the demon Crowley. They had sat up way into the small hours, sharing the local alcoholic beverage of choice (a rather nasty ale that tasted abhorrent, but made up for it in volume), and debating a philosophical question which was particularly prevalent in this part of the country: whether or not the geometric form of a circle does or does not reflect divinity. 

Crowley naturally, opposed the idea. Circles, which proverbially had 'no beginning and no end' (or so the story goes), where they both knew perfectly well that there _had_ been a beginning. They'd been there to witness it, at the, well, beginning, after all. Such an awful contradiction, not even getting the basic facts right. How could something so inherently wrong reflect Her essence? Not that he'd defend Her, mind you; She hadn't done the same for him either now, had She. But Crowley's beef with God was of a rather personal, or at least different philosophical nature. He wanted to argue so that he could _understand_, not because he genuinely disagreed. He would never deny facts that he knew to be true - what would be the point of that, in an effort to gain knowledge? More importantly, why should this stupid question require reflection at all, when there were so many more interesting questions to be pondered (like, why can important questions bring angels down, but humans can question the hell out of bullshit with no consequence?)? Also, from a very demonic point of view, nobody was trying to find accurate visual cues for evil, spare a few misguided preachers who got the wrong end of the stick. Why bother reflecting only part of the picture? That was bound to be inaccurate.

Aziraphale, equally naturally, upheld the proposition. Even a circle is drawn beginning _somewhere_, it begins, and then continues, and continues, and continues, never ending, and though those looking at the shape in later stages - after however many rounds have been drawn - do not know where the beginning was, that doesn't have to mean it's never been there. Even She had to begin somewhere, though nobody knew where or when that was, and so it did reflect Her essence very well indeed. Aziraphale had no other qualms with Her that required consideration, and though he understood where Crowley was coming from, he valued humanities' freedom to question things higher than his own desire to understand things himself. He was accustomed to suppressing questions he might have wanted to ask, since he was certain there would be no answers anyway; and considering the demon in front of him, he did not dare ponder further on the slight discomfort this thought caused him.

Ultimately, as the angel and demon had done so often over the years, they agreed to disagree, but spent an enjoyable night in the process, both leaving it all the richer for the experience of intellectual sparring with a worthy partner. There were so few humans who could understand the intricate nuances of the concept, let alone grasp the sheer scale of the argument itself. How could they, when there were hardly any other ethereal or occult individuals who would struggle given this task? There may have been other angels, or demons, who could spar like this, but they were never _here_, never on earth, never close enough to humanity, far enough removed from their respective hosts, to understand the necessity for representation. They had the 'real thing' in front of them, so they lacked the necessary mental concept of _not knowing_ that drove humanity to such qualms. 

Really, it was good of Crowley to entertain Aziraphale like this, discuss concepts they knew they would never agree about before their first drink was finished. On the other hand, Aziraphale knew with certainty that, while he valued the demon's company, it was no different the other way around: If Crowley was the only being on the planet who could hold a candle to his knowledge and experience - you don't spend two thousand years on earth without accumulating a good deal of both - surely Aziraphale was the only one who could afford the same service to Crowley. And he supposed that they both felt rather lonely in that knowledge, sometimes. They really only had each other for this sort of conversation.

Regardless though - the night was over, it was morning now, and Crowley had excused himself an hour hence, and disappeared into one of the taverns rooms to 'sleep'. Aziraphale knew the concept, of course, from his observations of humanity, but was unclear about the specifics. Certainly he couldn't understand why Crowley preferred hours of effective unconsciousness to a continued conversation, or, hell forbid, breakfast. It wasn't as if he _needed_ time to recover. Aziraphale had a passing suspicion that the demon might need time alone to reflect on their argument, and so he did not push the matter. 

And so the angel enjoys the quiet morning in his own thoughts, and a little later, when the innkeeper shows up to prepare the business of the day, a simple breakfast. This is a new one: some sort of grain that the locals ground and cooked with milk, sweetened with honey and apple. Crowley would have enjoyed the fruity bits, even if he had objected to the consistency of the dish. It wasn't a favorite but it was so... human. He enjoys human things, Crowley does, about as much as Aziraphale himself. Which was probably why they enjoyed each other's company so much, despite their obvious differences. A passion shared, all the curiosity, all the eagerness to understand, not the world, but why humans did what they did, and how they understood the world around them. And so, so often, they marveled together about their attempts to explain Her ineffable ways in terms that they could understand. The humans were wrong most of the time, naturally, but the effort! It was impressive in its sheer force of need to know, to understand, to explain. 

Aziraphale listlessly dabs his spoon into the grain mush, looking for another piece of apple, but there simply isn't enough left sweet bites left to make the mush worth eating, when a young man, bearded as the current fashion demands, sits down opposite him. "I heard your argument last night. Care to expand on the concept for me?" Startled, the angel looks up into eyes as brown as fresh dug earth, staring back at him in an unsettling way that he only later realizes is because they hardly ever _blink_.

"Whatever do you mean?" the angel wonders.

"The circles. I mean. I had this idea for some time, that circles would be an ideal shape to represent divine power. You seemed to have a similar notion. I wondered what else you had to say on the subject. Would you agree that a circle would be the ideal shape? How about a sphere?"

"I, ehm, excuse me... Who are you?" the angel stutters trying to focus on this prattling human who ripped him out of his own musings so suddenly.

"Oh, how ill-behaved of me. My name is Arthur. I'm teaching the ways of the stars to those who will listen. Do you want to learn about the stars?"

Aziraphale is slightly disturbed by this. He remembers another discussion with Crowley, just a few years back, about how the stars were made, the intricate work of designing nebula and solar systems. What could a human possibly teach him that the maker of these stars could not? He hesitates for a moment, but then decides that this is a fair question to ask out loud, and so he ventures: "What is it that you teach, exactly?"

"I'm so glad you ask!", Arthur responds, beaming. Apparently he's been hoping for this very reaction. A poor marketing trick, Aziraphale judges, but probably effective with other humans. He can't stop the man in front of him from ploughing on though. "The stars are the true representation of divinity. You were arguing last night that circles were a fair metaphor, an invisible beginning but no end. Now think about it. Think about how the stars appear endless in their expanse. I've heard from sea farers that they change depending on where on the oceans they travel, but they always appear endless. There is no beginning, or, in your word, none that we can see. There certainly is no end. So how could they not represent the truly divine?"

Aziraphale is very tempted to point out that while indeed divine, the stars' divinity is purely derived from his fellow angels' labor, as She had better things to do at the time. And that, while divine at the time, the makers of some of these stars - those made by the Morningstar, for one, but also by Crowley, and surely there must be others - were, strictly speaking, far more representative of the opposite of the divine these days. He wouldn't, of course, have made this argument in front of the demon but surely it was too obvious to mention that anything apparently so divine, by definition, must also have the capacity to be its very opposite. If She couldn't be bothered to build more than a spatter of stars to get her staff started, then was the nights sky representing Her, or the staff? And if that staff subsequently Fell, did these representations truly still reflect the distant manager, or rather the rebellious staff?

He couldn't possibly say any of this, so he decided to try something Crowley had recommended. He felt slightly guilty at this, as it might well have been bad advice, coming from a demon, but he couldn't keep staring at the human perplexedly either! And so he simply nodded and smiled encouragingly at Arthur. This seemed to be sufficient for the man, who, yet again, ploughed on. "Now, if the stars represent the divine, than a representation of the stars would share their divinity. Am I right?"

Aziraphale, again, wanted to say 'That's outrageous nonsense, please leave me alone', but couldn't bring himself to be so rude. "What would you propose such a representation to look like then?", he asked instead, hoping that bringing the topic down to practicalities might bank in the humans' enthusiasm.

Alas, he has no such luck. "That is a great question that I've given a lot of thought! I think you can best represent it through a circle drawn on the very earth!"

Aziraphale dips his finger into the grain mash that's slowly growing cold (and stiff) in his breakfast bowl, and draws a circle on the table. "Like this? That's your view of divinity?" He sticks the digit into his mouth, sucks off the remaining mush, and frowns at the taste.

"Not quite so crude, maybe, but yes. If, say, you drew it on the ground instead of a table. And in something more lasting than porridge. Like chalk, for example. You could carve it from the earth, rather than draw it onto it, now that I think about it."

Aziraphale looks at Arthur, exasperated, and not a little annoyed. He considers feigning tiredness to remove himself from this discussion, but lacks the frame of reference to do so. He's never felt tired in his existence, and he rather feels that Crowley's removal from similar situations was a poor act, with all that stretching and yawning that surely an occult, or for that matter, ethereal body would never require. For lack of somethings better to say, he offers "But weren't you talking about a sphere being the better representation? Well, then, why would you carve a flat circle into the ground and call it divine? Wouldn't something a bit more... raised... be more suitable?"

Arthur stares at him for a long moment, apparently at a loss for words. Aziraphale is silently hopeful that the unpleasant discussion might be over. And maybe it is, as Arthur seems to turn his gaze back into himself, and starts to mumble something about circles and hills and stones. Aziraphale takes this sudden introspection as his best chance of withdrawal, jumps off the bench with alacrity, and makes his excuse - 'how nice to meet Arthur, what an interesting metaphor, surely it will collect a decent following and make Arthur a great teacher of humankind, he would love to keep chatting but has a coach to catch.' Carefully, Aziraphale withdraws from the table and backs out of the room onto the road. In a moment, a startled coach who thought it was going along the South coast finds itself drawing up in front of the tavern to collect the angel. 

Aziraphale alights, settles down in-between several bags of letters, and sighs. He didn't have a chance to say his farewells to Crowley, but he's sure the other will understand the predicament. He cannot bear the rudeness of leaving without a word after the night they had, and so he summons a small inkwell and a piece of parchment with a thought, to write a brief note to the demon. It looks rather untidy with the carriage bumping along the uneven path, but once he is content with it being readable, he mentally sends it to slip underneath his rooms' door. Crowley will find it in the morning, or whenever he arises from his slumber.

~*~*~

Five years later, Aziraphale crosses the valley of Salisbury again. He heard talk of the druid Arthur, whose divine inspiration has led him to build a circle high up on a hill. Or really, inspire others to build, as he would not lower himself to the bodily work of moving those stones. Huge slabs of sarsen reflect the movement of the stars, capturing the first beams of sunlight on solstice. Aziraphale is glad now that Crowley had disappeared into his room that night, and not witnessed that apparently fateful conversation. If the demon knew Aziraphale had anything to do with this, he'd never hear the end of it. That business with the pyramids had been bad enough, and he was glad that Crowley had finally stopped teasing about it; it only took a few hundred years.

So Arthur had created a henge. For a brief moment, Aziraphale wonders whether he should stop by and talk to the druid, but then decides it's not worth the risk of getting drawn into yet another of these discussions. Heaven only knows what Arthur would come up with next, while Aziraphale didn't even try to spread divine inspiration! All he had wanted back then was some peace and quiet and a nice breakfast, and not be bothered by people, and he really would like the same just now. 

Just with better company. The angel glances to the side, where Crowley wanders with the graceful stride that comes so naturally to his vessel. Those long legs will carry him anywhere; and they have to, as he consistently refuses to ride. They had ran into each other on the coast, and decided to travel north together to visit this new supposedly sacred site, Crowley with his usual curiosity, Aziraphale with dread. The henge was certainly yet another human marvel, part of their struggle to understand Her better. But inspiring that young druid had been more of an accident, and in fact, one he had not dared claim in his reports, because it just seemed too unpredictable what Arthur would make out of it! It could have been dreadful, and if so, Aziraphale wanted no part in it. So for all intends an purposes, he blatantly pretended to know nothing about the site's origin.

"It's odd, really", Crowley offers by way of restarting the discussion that had dwindled away some miles hence, "that they're building this _here_. Do you remember our discussion when we were here last, what was it, four years ago?"

"Five", Aziraphale puts in. "We had porridge. Or well, I did. You slept through that. I still think you made the better choice."

"Have you tried sleep yet?" The demon glances sideways and raises an immaculate eyebrow at the angel. "It's quite nice, you know? Relaxing. Peaceful." 

In the back of his head, Aziraphale wonders why a peaceful activity should be something worth pursuing for a demon, and silently adds this thought to the large drawer in his mind labelled 'Crowley' for later consideration. "I haven't," he responds with a frown, "I still think there's better ways to spend my time. I enjoy peaceful nights without disturbance. Or unconsciousness."

"Bah, it's not unconsciousness, angel! You should try dreaming. It's amazing!" Crowley seems to be indeed fascinated by this hobby of his. "You get to see all sorts of things, beautiful or horrifying, old or new, and you don't even need to spend a miracle on it!"

Maybe Aziraphale will try it, one day (or rather: one night), to see what the fuss is about, but he feels that he'll need to work up to it a bit longer. "I don't see why I should prefer confused imaginary visions to the real thing. Take this 'henge'. It's a marvel, surely. Human inspiration at its best, or so the rumors would have you think. I am still not sure whether this 'druid' person is one of ours or one of yours, but that doesn't mean that the thing itself is not an achievement. Have you seen the size of those sarsen stones?" He points to the huge construction on top of the hill. "They did that without miracles!"

"A marvel indeed," the demon admits. "Though I'm more interested in the concept behind the site. I hear it does interesting things at solstice sunset. Wonder how they figured that out. If they did." 

"We shall see tomorrow morning, shan't we," the angel points out. For it is solstice tomorrow, and the first ritual greeting of the summer sun will initiate the druid circle at the site. "Though first, I'd like something to eat. Do you think that tavern is still there?" They walk on towards the road where they found the tavern last time, and it is still there. There is a hot and well-made stew on offer that the angel tucks into, while Crowley explores the most recent brews. They spend an enjoyable few hours, sitting up through the night, catching up about their latest temptations and blessings, and waiting for the sun to rise. 

At dawn, they leave the tavern room and make their way up the hill, wandering in a long circle around the henge, and finally drawing nearer to inspect the huge standing stones. "It truly _is_ a marvel," Crowley breathes, touching one of the headstones. 

There is a small group of humans - druids, as it seems, all men dressed in white cloaks - in the centre of the stone circle. Their heads are bent, and they chant in low tones, a constant ebb and flow, nearly conversational, with one of the druids invoking something, and the others falling in afterwards. They are too far away for Aziraphale and Crowley to hear the words, but neither of them is interested enough in the detail to draw closer. Having heard all sorts of prayers and invocations for two thousand years, there was no need to listen in, especially not at the risk of being seen. They can cloak themselves, of course, but it is such a cumbersome miracle to perform if they might just as well escape notice by staying back. 

As the moment of sunrise draws closer, one of the druids speaks up, and then all the others fall in, repeating loud enough to hear:  
_"We swear by peace and love to stand,_  
heart to heart and hand in hand.  
Mark, O Spirit, hear us now,  
confirming this, our sacred vow."  
They chant it, over and over again, until the sun finally edges over the horizon, its light falling through the two big headstones. Right in the centre of the large half-circle the druids have formed, one of them stands still, face turned to the sun, with a staff raised high in the air. The first rays grace the bright blond crest of his head, and Aziraphale recognises him as Arthur. It is a moving scene, the ebb and flow of the chant, the sun filtering through the morning air, catching on fine silver threads woven into the druids' immaculate white robe. It reminds Aziraphale of the early days in heaven. The Morningstar used to wear a similar robe back then, though his shone red rather than silver. Aziraphale feels drawn into the scene, his mind is filled with the chanting, the light, the ethereal atmosphere, and in that moment he truly does believe that the humans may have found a way to reflect Her power; not through the stones, their position or size, but through their belief and commitment that this is _right_. 

Aziraphale feels that it is, in his heart, in his bones, through to the tips of his wings' primaries. Crowley suddenly jumps, then hisses angrily into his ear: "Angel, what the fuck? Couldn't have given me some warning, could you? I thought this wasn't a work trip?!" The angel shakes and returns his thought and gaze to the demon beside him. He smells a whiff of burning that seems to emanate from Crowley, who stares at him, fuming (both metaphorically _and_ literally), then looks down. Fine whiffs of smoke rise from the soles of his feet. The demon prances from one foot to the other, and suppresses a sound that could be described as a yelp, if demons were able to produce such noises. Only then does Aziraphale realise what happened. He got so lost in the ritual that he apparently, inadvertently blessed the site. And now Crowley finds himself, equally inadvertently, standing on consecrated ground. 

"Ehm … Oops!" The angel glances up at the demon apologetically. "I'm sorry, I wasn't … that is, I didn't mean to … I wasn't actually _meant_ to … We should leave. Now." He grabs Crowley's arm and pulls him toward the foot of the hill.

"I don't believe this, angel." Crowley mumbles, hopping along next to Aziraphale in the pale morning light, unable to suppress a somewhat fond grin. "You really have no self-control." And Aziraphale knows that he'll not hear the end of _this_ for a few centuries to come.

**Author's Note:**

> Stonehenge was founded [way earlier](https://www.english-heritage.org.uk/visit/places/stonehenge/history-and-stories/history/). The main stone circle was built around 2500 bc, but that wasn't the first use of the site, which was closer to 5000bc. That would have clashed with the TV timeline, so I took a bit of artistic liberty here. 
> 
> The prayer I quote is probably inaccurate for the time I'm writing about; it _is_ what is chanted at solstices at Stonehenge nowadays. If you ever are in the area around those times of year, I can wholeheartedly recommend to go. It's free, you get to actually go into the circle (which you cannot do as a tourist on a regular visit), and it's just one big, incredible spectacle. And then of course, there's [Arthur Uther Pendragon](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arthur_Uther_Pendragon), head of the druids, leading the ceremonies. It's wonderful, British insanity at it's best.


End file.
